


The Final, Final Problem

by GarudaDreamsOfRain



Category: Sherlock - Fandom, Sherlolly - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Humor and Romance, Strong Language, written for ILYanniversary2018
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-15
Updated: 2018-01-15
Packaged: 2019-03-05 02:27:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13378176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GarudaDreamsOfRain/pseuds/GarudaDreamsOfRain
Summary: A kind stranger helps Sherlock in his hour of need.





	The Final, Final Problem

Sherlock kept banging on Molly’s door. “Let me in!” he yelled.

“Go away, Sherlock,” Molly shouted. “I’m not in the mood for your bullshit!”

“Please, Molly,” he begged. “You’ve got to let me explain.”

“Go away!”

Sherlock sank down in the hallway and sat, his back against her door. “I’m not leaving!” he bellowed. “Not until you let me in!”

“That’s never going to happen!” she hollered through the door. “You can’t play with my feelings like this! You’re such a bastard!”

Molly’s neighbor Patrick, a rather burly ginger pushing sixty, in his boxer shorts, vest and robe, whipped his door open and glared at Sherlock. “Holy Mary, Mother of God, would ye two please shut up now? It’s three o’clock in the bloody morning and this has been going on for 45 minutes!”

“I can’t leave,” Sherlock said, desperately. “I love her. I told her and she doesn’t believe me. I’m going to sit here until she opens the door or I die.” He crossed his arms and scowled. “I could be bleeding to death out here and fat lot she’d care!” he shouted at the unresponsive door.

“Jaysus,” said Patrick, rubbing his face. He went back inside his flat, pulled two beers out of his fridge, and joined Sherlock on the floor in the hallway, his back against his own door. He passed a beer to Sherlock. “Now, lad, tell me what’s happening.”

Sherlock cracked the beer and opened his mouth to speak, but Patrick held up a warning finger. “Just so ye know, laddie, I have a daughter nearly Molly’s age. She lives in Dublin and I love her more than me life. I look on Molly as me own. If I even think for a second that you’re jerking her around, I’ll be having your kidneys for breakfast. Understand?”

Sherlock swallowed and nodded. “It’s kind of…complicated,” he began. 

“Always is, mate,” Patrick responded, evenly.

“Well, I have a sister who’s utterly insane, and locked up in a…um…institution.”

“Runs in the family, does it?” Patrick asked.

Sherlock shot him a look. “Anyway, today she made me call Molly and make her say…those words, but Molly made me say them first, and I knew it was terrible and awful and unforgivable and she was going to hate me but I couldn’t let her get blown up, could I?”

“Bollocks!” Patrick said.

“No, really,” Sherlock continued. “Listen, I know it’s supposed to be lovely and romantic when you tell a girl you love her. I’ve seen the movies, I’m not a complete idiot. There’s supposed to be flowers and rainbows and jewelry and sickening music with swelling strings or at least Frank Sinatra, and France in the background or something. I know that. But when you only have three minutes before the bombs go off, there’s no time to make it nice.”

“Bombs? Real bombs?” Patrick looked around, worried. “There’s bombs here?”

“Well, no. They weren’t real but I didn’t know that at the time. She’s really insane. My sister, I mean, not…Molly. Although she’s acting pretty crazy right now!” he shouted through the door. “Considering that I love her!”

“Fuck off, Sherlock!” Molly hollered back. “I’m going to bed!”

“We’re going to need something stronger than beer, mate,” Patrick sighed, going into his flat and coming out with a bottle and two glasses.

“Is that Irish whiskey?” Sherlock asked, a bit of trepidation in his voice.

“Something wrong with Irish whiskey?” Patrick demanded, narrowing his eyes and pouring them each a measure.

“No!” Sherlock was quick to add. “Fine whiskey. Lovely…people.”

They clinked glasses and downed the shots. Patrick poured some more. “Now, laddie. You’ve known her how long?”

“Seven years.”

“And when, to the nearest of your recollection, did ye start to love her?”

“Seven years ago. Don’t tell her I said that, okay?” Sherlock whispered conspiratorially.

“God almighty, ye are a moron, aren’t ye? And you’ve never told her.”

“Never. My work is rather dangerous, and, um, romantic entanglements could prove…fatal.”

“Well,” Patrick observed, “Now ye have a choice. Death from work, death from Molly, or death from me. Choose.” At Sherlock’s panicked expression, he burst out laughing. “I’m just having ye on, lad. But now, you’re going to have to clarify why romantic entanglements could be fatal.”

“Well, I have to keep my mind sharp and focused. If I’m thinking about Molly’s beautiful brown eyes at the wrong time, or that adorable little giggle, or the way she bites her bottom lip, or her cute upturned nose, or her…frankly terrible taste in clothes, or the way she makes jokes about death, or her kind heart which I don’t deserve, or the way she slaps me so..good…”

“Careful there, lad,” Patrick warned. “I don’t need to be hearing about your sex life.”

“We don’t have a sex life!” Sherlock shouted. “Because she won’t believe me when I tell her I love her! And god, now you’ve made me think about that and now I really am going to die.”

“So, ye don’t want to love her because you’re afraid of getting distracted at work?” Patrick shook his head. “Lad, I’m an iron worker. I spend me life running around on girders two, three hundred meters in the air. One wrong step and I’ll be a splat on the pavement. And as much as I adore me wife, which is to say with a powerful yearning that astonishes me every single day, I stay focused so I can go back to her sweet arms every single night. If I can do it, ye can do it. Every man knows that. ‘Cor blimey, mate, what kind of an idiot are ye?”

“I’m a lovesick idiot.” Sherlock muttered.

“That much is obvious,” Patrick said, shaking his head. “You’re going to have to woo her, lad.”

“What? You mean, stand here, sing songs, that kind of nonsense? Do you have a lute I can borrow?” Sherlock snort-laughed and took another shot. “If she would just let me in I know I could explain it to her.”

“Tell me instead.” 

“Oh god,” Sherlock groaned. “She asked me out when we first met, but I shied off because she was so cute and adorable and I was immediately attracted to her, but I knew it was going to be a problem. So I put her off. But then I got to know her more, and I found out she was different from other girls…women. She was so strong and kept her dignity even when I insulted her that Christmas and I felt bad so I apologized. I never feel bad! I never apologize! I love her so much I even like it when she makes me feel terrible!”

Sherlock leaned over and yelled through the door. “I’m sorry, Molly! Please forgive me!” He turned back to Patrick. “Christ, look at me, I’m apologizing!” 

“Aye, laddie, the terrible depths to which you’ve sunk,” Patrick chuckled.

Sherlock shook his head woefully and continued. “And then sometimes I’d want to see her so badly I could barely breathe, and sometimes I avoided her because it hurt to see her and not be with her, but she saw me and helped me and I trusted her with my life, and she kept my secret for two years! Two years! She saved my life. I owe her…everything. Everything. And when I came back I almost went for it because I was so lonely and she’s so lovely and I knew I was being a fool but I couldn’t help it because…”

“…you’re an idiot,” Patrick said.

“…because I’m an idiot and I didn’t see how wonderful and perfect she is, and she was engaged to that…sex maniac, and I wanted to punch him but then I thought why shouldn’t she have someone who’s good for her and not me? Someone…normal, someone who will cherish her and keep her safe and not me, running around chasing murderers and getting people into trouble. And then I couldn’t stop getting high, which is bad, I know it’s bad, but sometimes I can’t help it and then things have just been so…difficult and Mary died and I wanted to run to her...Molly, I mean, and just hold her but I couldn’t, because…”

“…you’re an arsehole,” Patrick said.

“…because I’m an arsehole and I was scared to do it because I’m not worthy of her, not at all and the next thing I knew there’s my sister whom I didn’t know I had, and I had to make her say it...Molly, I mean, or she would die and then I would die because I can’t live without her,” he finished, sorrowfully. “And now I’m going to sit here until she forgives me or I expire of unrequited love.”

Patrick stared at the younger man sitting opposite. He shook his head. “Laddie, you’re a mess, there’s no doubt about it. And a bit of a drama queen, too, I reckon. But I think you’ll have no problems.”

“Why?” Sherlock asked. “She won’t even talk to me.”

“No, but she heard you.”

“How do you know?” Sherlock wailed. “She went to bed, and I’m out here dying and she doesn’t even care!”

“Because I can see her shadow under the door,” Patrick answered. “She’s been sitting there listening to every word ye said. If the door wasn’t there, ye’d be sitting back to back.” He shook his head, got to his feet and knocked loudly on Molly’s door. “Open the door, ye daft lass! There’s a boyo out here who loves ye!”

The door flew open and Sherlock fell backwards through the frame. Molly squealed and jumped on him, straddling his hips and pressing kisses all over his face. “You do love me!” she exclaimed. “You love me!” Sherlock wrapped his arms around her and kissed her back, wildly, happily.

“Of course I do, Molly,” Sherlock managed to say between kisses. “What did you think?”

“Now,” Patrick said, “ye two get up off the floor and get in there before I have to call the police and report ye for making a public nuisance of yourselves, disturbing the peace and whatnot. Jaysus, young folks today!”

They scrambled to their feet. Molly yanked Sherlock inside and slammed the door shut. Over the sound of their giggles from the other side of the door, Patrick yelled, “Don’t forget now, I get to give the bride away!”

“Patrick, ye foolish man,” said his wife, leaning in their doorway in her nightgown, her eyes shining. “Get back in here and leave them young lovers alone. It’s half three in the morning and I’m going to give ye a thorough snog, I am, because I love ye more than life itself.”


End file.
